The man stopped in the apricot glow of her lantern, and the glimpses she had seen of him pieced together to reveal the whole picture.
Oh… oh my…
He might have been the most handsome gentleman she had ever seen. His eyes were not black at all, but the kind of blue that made her think of summer dusks: a warm color, despite the frosty expression upon his face. His hair, however, was crow-black and far shorter than the fashion of society’s gentlemen: close cropped at the sides and almost tufty on top. A severe, warrior-like cut for a severe and warrior-like man, if the muscular bulk of his body was any indication of his ability to fight.
Full lips with a deep bow might have appeared feminine on another man, but on him they were the most captivating, handsome lips she had ever seen. So much so that she could ignore, for a moment, that they were curled in a sneer of displeasure.
The man was blessed with the sort of bone structure and strong physique that would have inspired an entire collection of sculptures that hordes of society women would have flocked to in the name of admiring art.Notthe sculptures on public display, either, but the ones tucked away in private galleries, so as not to make the ladies faint at the shocking sight of the male form, stripped bare.
I imagine it is as impressive a sight beneath those clothes as it is with them on,her wayward mind mused, the thought hastily pushed out of her head before she started blushing.
She forced herself to keep her eyes up, the glow of the lantern highlighting sharp cheekbones and a square jaw shadowed with stubble, his strong features matching the strength of that most distracting physique.
Yes, he would certainly have been the most handsome man she had ever seen, outside of her imagination, had it not been for the scars that seemed to want to mar all of that divine artistry. Although, she thought, even those did not truly detract from his beauty; it was the scowl, the scorching rage in those blue eyes, the look as if he wanted to do her harm, that took away from his handsomeness.
“I was… searching for the butler,” she managed to croak. “I thought he might be hurt.”
The man took a step closer, the flame of the lantern reflecting in his eyes like two infernal bonfires, like he had stepped out of hell itself. A beautiful demon, come to deliver swift and fiery punishment.
“You did not answer my question,” he growled. “Whatare you doing in my home?”
A strong, rough hand curled around her wrist, and she knew, without doubt, that her time in the warmth had come to an end. Indeed, he did not even need to introduce himself, for she knew the villain in a story when they appeared: this was the Duke of Norwood.
Perhaps, it was not ghosts she should have been warned about.
CHAPTER THREE
Adrian Holbrook had fallen asleep in the library again. He tried not to make a habit of it, for when he dozed among those books and stories, the nightmares always came.
He had been in the midst of one such nightmare when the echo of footsteps had jolted him out of it, his mind blurring the lines between dream and reality for a moment. Uncertain if the footsteps were part of the horrors, or something else.
It was the screech of old hinges to a door never used that had alerted him to a disturbance in the castle, an anomaly that should not have been there. Still, he had not expected to find a beautiful stranger standing there, intruding upon his castle and his peace.
“My carriage,” the woman began in an even voice, the distracting, quick rise and fall of her full bosom betraying her nerves. “It lost a wheel on the road, and I could neither walk all the way to the nearest town in this weather nor remain behind,alone, where anyone or anything might harm me. So, I came to seek safe harbor.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed, holding the wide, green gaze of hers. “I fail to see how that is any concern of mine.”
He abhorred visitors. Any visitor. It didn’t matter if they had hair the color of fresh honey that cascaded in inappropriate waves to their waist, uncovered by the usual modesty of a bonnet. It didn’t matter if the visitor had the face of an angel, all rosy cheeks and bitten-red lips and a dusting of freckles that spoke of careless time in the sunshine. It didn’t matter that this visitorwas the prettiest thing that had set foot in the castle for a long, long time; she was unwelcome, regardless.
“Then one might suggest spectacles,” the woman replied, marking her out as the very worst kind of stranger: the bold, outspoken kind. “Indeed, I apologize for the inconvenience, but is it not a duke’s responsibility to take care of those who have had trouble while passing through his territory?”
Duke? How does she know what I am?
She cleared her throat before he could reply, straightening up in defiance. “Apologies once again, forIhave forgotten my manners—perhaps, it is catching.” She put out her hand. “I am Miss Valerie Wightman, daughter to the Baron of Gramfield.”
He stared at her pale hand and elegant fingers, poised so gracefully. “I do not care who you are. You are not welcome here.”
“Butyouasked who I was,” she retorted immediately. “Did you not want that question to be answered?”
He grumbled in the back of his throat, half-wishing that this womanhadbeen part of his nightmare. At least then he would have been able to go back to sleep and forget about her.
“You speak of manners, yet what a rude creature you are,” he said gruffly.
He might not have wanted her there, but was that any way to speak to someone who had, against his wishes and knowledge, given shelter in his castle?
“Rude?” she gasped, her brow furrowing. “Iam rude?”
“I have seen your ilk before,” he replied. “You come to my castle, you claim you have suffered in one way or another, and that you merely need a place to rest for the night. By morning, my silverware is gone, or I find youtrying to ensnare me in a scandal.”
